Those Who Always Loved You
by ferain1832
Summary: AU: What if Valjean had never met Fantine and never went to collect Cosette? Involving Grantaire, a reckless promise to a dying woman, a little girl in the Café Musain, weddings, funerals and a looming threat of barricades.
1. Chapter 1

The funeral had ended, a few handfuls of moist earth had been thrown on the grave and Grantaire hurried away, legs sinking into the deep snow, not caring what the rest of his relatives would think.

His aunt was perhaps the only tolerable member of his family.

His father and his uncles were all dry, desperately insipid men that worshipped the _status quo_ and rejected originality. His father, the eldest of the three brothers, was more of a hypocrite than the rest, accepting the vices of others for his personal use. It is despicable to drink, he told young Grantaire, pouring himself a glass; it is unacceptable to let emotions rule you, after having 'disciplined' him in a particularly vicious way.

His mother was a good woman but consumed by her love for his father. Grantaire never quite knew what she found in him, yet she loved him and that was the end of it. She loved him, thus thought the world of him, thus always took the side of the father against the son.

Siblings he has never had, his cousins were small copies of their parents, in short there was no one he could love as he wanted to love, with the same intensity as his mother, but a far worthier subject. His aunt was perhaps the closest to that ideal, still so far away from it but as near as anyone in his stale childhood could get.

She was kind to him; protected him from his father; tried to stir his mother into some sort of action; gave him _pavés de Montreuil_, the specialty sweet of the little town she lived in; introduced him to art; advised him to follow it further to Paris. Then, in the four years that they hadn't seen each other, the letters got scarcer, the thoughts ceased; now, all of a sudden, there was the letter announcing her death and here was the priest at her funeral.

Grantaire mourned, not only the good memories that he had of his aunt but also himself, young and infinitely more innocent as he was that last day in Toulouse in 1822, before he gave up on everything and became a failure, before the world began to seem darker than ever, before…

Not before Enjolras. There was nothing before Enjolras. There was always Enjolras even when he didn't know that Enjolras existed, because it was Enjolras that he loved deeply, desperately, huddled under the bedsheets just 10 years old, wanting only something pure and luminous to lift him out of this dingy room, to cure the pain in his backside and his heart, to love him and let himself be loved back.

The snowy streets of the little Montreuil-sur-Mer were hardly less gloomy than the wider, dirtier ones of Paris. Two points tipped the scales in the favour of Paris: the abundance of cheap alcohol and the fact that a certain little café in that big town was his home.

Grantaire headed back to the tavern where the mail coach would take him back to Paris. The journey would take the entire day and there was a particular shade of blond hair that he hadn't seen since longer than he could bear.

He was hurrying back along the narrow alley when suddenly he tripped over something and fell flat into the snow.

Clambering up with a few muffled curses, Grantaire brushed the snow off him coat, looking for the source of his misfortune.

With a jolt he realised it was a woman.

She was lying there in the snow, unmoving, her hair in short jagged clumps, her clothes nothing more than the ragged outfit of a street _grisette _despite the cold.

Cautiously Grantaire prodded her shoulder, fearing that she was dead. Must have collapsed drunk on the snow then froze to death. One of these days it might be Grantaire's turn. When he got no visible signs of life, he lifted her head clumsily and felt the mouth. She was alive.

There was no one around to call for help and the windows above them were boarded up, so Grantaire scooped away the snow and pulled the woman on his lap, covering her with his coat. Then, only vaguely knowing what to do, he took off his scarf and started rubbing her arms and shoulders with it. A minute more and she'll be dead, then what will he do with a corpse on his hands? Not to mention that he felt sorry for the woman. She looked young but worn out, much like himself.

Suddenly, Grantaire remembered the flask he always carried with him, filled with something heartwarming. He pulled it out and gave it a shake. There wasn't much, he had been in need of heartwarming last night when the coach had been so suffocating and the night so dark, yet there was still enough to pour into the woman's mouth. Then, to his enormous relief, she began to stir and sigh.

"Are you better now?" Grantaire said awkwardly, unsure what to do next. "What's your name? Where do you live?"

"Fantine," the woman whispered, not much louder than the creaking of the snow underneath them.

"You ought to be in bed," Grantaire said, "not sleeping around on street corners." Her forehead was burning.

"Cosette," she murmured, looking at him with imploring eyes. "Cosette…"

"Who's that? Your friend? Shall I call her?"

"I'm dying... Cosette…"

"Don't even think of dying," Grantaire demanded nervously. "Where's this Cosette?"

"Mont…"

"Go on!" He shook out the few last drops of brandy onto the woman's lips.

"Montfermeil," she gasped. "Inn… Thé... nard..."

"Montfermeil?" Grantaire repeated, confused. "Is that around here?"

"Promise," Fantine exclaimed, suddenly grasping him by the sleeve. "Promise!"

"Promise what?"

"Take care of her," Fantine whispered. The sudden action seemed to have drained any energy she had left. "She… has no one… but me… Promise!"

"Fine, fine, I promise," Grantaire hurried to say, "just be quiet, you'll exhaust yourself. Here, let me go get someone. You can't just lie here."

The pleading, exhausted expression on her face was still imprinted in his memory when he came back, bringing with him a nearby baker and his wife. Vainly so, since the expression was gone and the glazed eyes were staring upwards at the white sky.


	2. Chapter 2

Many hours later, when it was completely dark, Grantaire arrived back in Paris. It was too late for anyone to be still around in the Musain but Grantaire still decided to spend the night there. He hated sleeping in his own bed, it was dark and lonely. The back room would also be dark but it wouldn't be lonely, not with the traces of life all around him.

He was nearly at the Rue des Grès when suddenly voices started playing in his head.

_Cosette… Promise! Take care of her… Promise!_

_Fine, fine, I promise!_

Grantaire had completely forgotten about that.

Well, for God's sake, Grantaire thought, what business was it of his? He didn't know the woman, he met her only by chance. Why should he do anything for this Cosette of hers? She was in some inn, she was being provided for no doubt, which was more than what he could do. What would he do with her? He didn't even know who she was, she could be an elderly aunt for all he knew. What could he do for an elderly aunt?

Grantaire nodded and went on.

But then, he did promise. It's been a while since he kept a promise. Wouldn't it be funny for a change? He remembered Enjolras, the beautiful, upright Enjolras, who never failed anyone in his life, whose word was absolute, whose resolution never waned. What would Enjolras say to him if he knew?

With a groan, Grantaire turned back to his apartment. He knew he could not look Enjolras in the eyes until he stood by his word.

He ran the whole way back rather than walked, fighting against temptation. It would be so easy. To stay in the Musain overnight, to forget about all this nonsense with a bottle of something and in the morning, there will be his angel with his papers and his sweet blue eyes, drinking coffee and smiling at Combeferre or someone else, so luminously that if Grantaire shut his eyes he could almost pretend that it was aimed at him.

And yet, all that dawn would have a false tinge about it if Grantaire attempted to bask in it with such a heavy secret in his chest. He may have been useless before, a worthless failure and a disappointment, yet at least that was because he never did anything, not the opposite. He could not refuse and he could not forget.

Thus it was that some ten hours later when it had finished dawning, looking a little worse for wear, Grantaire was on another mail coach, this time to Montfermeil. Luckily for him, it was only a little over two hours away. He spent the time wondering what Enjolras would do on an extended journey. Something productive no doubt, write letters to a thousand correspondents and articles for a million newspapers.

When he got off at the little village cross, he realised that perhaps what Enjolras would have done instead was to put together a plan of action. Grantaire shrugged. How hard could it be?

Walking down the icy main street, Grantaire considered how Enjolras would have handled this issue. He would have been prompt and direct, he decided, taking a deep breath and pushing back his hair with what he hoped was an impressive flick. Prompt and direct, that's what he, Grantaire, needed to be also.

The streets were deserted, as expected on such a devilishly cold day as this. Grantaire pressed on, rubbing his hands, wishing to get this stupid task over with. The prospect of an inn pleased him - there was plenty of chances to warm up in there.

Suddenly he saw a little girl emerging from a side street, carrying a loaf of bread under her arm.

"Excuse me, little girl!" Grantaire called out, making the girl flinch and nearly drop the bread. She was hardly older than nine and dressed in a way that made Grantaire relish his coat and scarf, threadbare as they were.

"Monsieur?"

"Could you tell me the way to a local inn? Owned by one… what's his name… Thénard?"

The girl bit her lips nervously, flinching again at the sound of the name. "Thénardier, monsieur?"

"I guess so," Grantaire shrugged his shoulders. "Unless there's another inn round here?"

"Just the one, monsieur."

"Well then, can you tell me where it is?"

"I could show you, monsieur," the girl said with a sudden burst of energy. "Madame will be ever so pleased with a new cus…" She trailed off and looked down at the frozen ground.

"So you know the people?"

"Oh yes, monsieur," she said rather mournfully, "I live with them."

"That's good," Grantaire said. "Then you could tell me who this one person called Cosette is."

The girl's eyes widened. "Well… monsieur…"

"Get on with it." It was probably an old invalid aunt. What has he gotten himself into?

"Well," the girl said, still looking at him as if he had just grown fins, "it's me. Cosette. That's me."

"You?"

"Yes, monsieur. Sorry."

That changed things quite a lot. For some reason Grantaire had not been expecting a little girl.

"Well, Cosette," he drew out, trying to recall what it was Enjolras would do, "your mother sent me here, in a way." He hoped it was her mother. It could still have been an aunt.

"My mother?" Cosette whispered, looking all the more like a frightened baby animal. "You've met my mother, monsieur?"

"She told me to take care of you," Grantaire mumbled, fully aware of how stupid it all looked. Here was he, Grantaire, a drunkard and a good-for-nothing, proposing to take care of some random little girl.

"How is my mother? What is she like?"

Grantaire was suddenly faced with a further problem. He couldn't very well tell her that this Fantine woman was dead. She'd cry and be sad and Grantaire could deal with crying and sadness just about as well as with an ant hill in his wardrobe.

"So do you live with these Thénardiers?" he said quickly. "Do they treat you well? Do you like it there?" Maybe there won't be any need for him to act radically.

All of a sudden the girl was clinging to his legs and coat. "Please, monsieur," she sobbed, "take me away with you! Take me to my mother! Don't make me - go back - _there_!"

"No, no, sure," Grantaire hurried to say, panicking, "of course I'll take you. Just stop that crying nonsense and we'll go straight off."

Cosette took a deep breath, struggling to gain composure. Before she could start again, he turned around and started walking the way he came. Expecting her to follow, it was several paces before he looked back and saw her still standing on the same spot.

"Well, come then," he called out, tapping his foot. "We don't have any time to waste."

Cosette hesitated, then dropping the loaf of bread on the ground, ran to catch up, nearly slipping on the ice.

They didn't speak until they were about half way back to Paris.

"You can trust me," Grantaire said suddenly. "Or rather, don't trust _me_, I'm no good to anyone. Where we're going there are eight people, that's who you should trust. They're wonderful. Especially one of them."

"Why?" Cosette asked, timidly rearranging her ragged skirt.

"His name is Enjolras," Grantaire said, wishing to impart much-needed wisdom on the child. "You're going to love him. Everyone does. Anyone who doesn't is a fool."

"Is he so good?"

Grantaire smiled mysteriously. "He is an angel."

Another long pause, then Cosette pulled cautiously at his coat.

"Monsieur?"

"What?"

"I think you're an angel too."

Grantaire scoffed. "I'm no angel. You should see me. I've got more vices than the Devil and less reverence than Penelope's Suitors." If God had any sense, angels were just like that one somehow stranded in the back room of the Musain. Still, it felt quite good to hear that said to him.


	3. Chapter 3

In the afternoon they were back in Paris and the Place Saint-Michel was at last in sight. Grantaire alighted off the carriage with a cheerful jump. For the first time in months, he felt rather bright. The funeral business was over with, he probably wouldn't have to see his family again until their own funerals, he was back in Paris and would see Enjolras in a matter of minutes. He wasn't just going to steal furtive glances like usual, moreover, he had a specific and laudable business to relate to him. At long last he'd have something to say that Enjolras would listen to. Finally he felt worthy.

"Come on in," Grantaire said, lifting Cosette off the carriage. He wanted to get everything over with. The longer he had something like this on his hands, the more chances there were that he would mess something up just as he always did.

"Where are we going, monsieur?" Cosette asked him timidly.

"I told you," he said. "This is the Café Musain, home to Les Amis de l'ABC. Your uncles, so to speak. It's past midday, they'll all be there, I'll bet on it."

They walked into the café, attracting a few curious glances - the patrons knew Grantaire like their own sons by this point. It must have been a spectacle to see him with a ragged girl. Before the door leading to the back room he paused, suddenly nervous, then opened it with a bang.

The room was full just as he had expected. Combeferre and Feuilly were poring over books. Courfeyrac was declaiming something, leaning further back on his chair than seemed physically possible, his legs on the table. Joly and Bossuet were playing dominoes, Bossuet clearly losing. Prouvaire was giving a passionate explanation of something or other to Bahorel, the glint in whose eyes indicated clearly that he was winding Prouvaire up and enjoying it.

And beyond it all, Enjolras, book in hand but not reading, his glance surveying the room dreamily, his eyes lit up by some inspiring thought. How often did Grantaire wish that he would relate these thoughts to him! The words themselves would all be the same to Grantaire, what mattered was to hear that voice addressing its light and brilliancy to him and him alone. There was nothing he loved so much than to watch Enjolras soar.

As usual, he soared, and as usual, was brought back to earth by the sight of Grantaire. This time, though, his eyes focused on him with some confusion.

Enjolras stepped towards them, still standing at the door, one eyebrow raised in surprise. Grantaire squirmed, wishing he's say something already, while Cosette edged towards him, clutching at his trouser leg.

"What is this, Grantaire?"

Courfeyrac was already staring at Grantaire with amusement, Combeferre looked up, Prouvaire fell silent and Bossuet dropped his domino tile.

"That's… well…" Grantaire mumbled, floundering under Enjolras's steady gaze. "I…"

"Well?"

"I rescued her," Grantaire blurted out, taking a deep breath to collect himself. "Her mother entrusted her to me. She told me to go and save her from some inn people. Which I did and here we are."

Enjolras looked from one to the other, then suddenly threw Grantaire a smile, as dazzling and unexpected as a gleam of sunlight on a dark lake.

"Entrusted her to you, did you say?"

"Precisely," Grantaire said, nodding as if there was nothing unusual about that. "I'm to take care of her."

For a moment Enjolras was silent, then in one rapid movement he was kneeling beside the girl.

"What's your name?"

"Cosette," she whispered tentatively, still holding on to Grantaire.

Enjolras examined her from head to toe, then suddenly offered his hand.

"And I am Enjolras," he said, solemnly shaking hands. "I'm Grantaire's friend, as are everyone here. Welcome."

He called himself his friend. His friend. It was worth bringing a thousand Cosettes to the Musain just to hear that one more time.

Enjolras got up and Courfeyrac leapt to take his place.

"Well, darling," he was saying, pulling her into the room, "come meet your uncles. Hey, Joly, pass me what's left of those macarons. The girl must be hungry."

"A bowl of chicken broth before anything else," Combeferre said. "It's very cold out there. We don't want her falling sick."

"Here, put my coat on her," Bahorel called out.

"And my scarf," Joly nodded, untying it hurriedly. "I can't guarantee the absence of miasma from it, you never know, but at least the girl will be warm."

Meanwhile Enjolras was doing what he had never yet done - looking straight at Grantaire and nodding towards a private corner.


	4. Chapter 4

It was funny how easy it was to find himself standing within inches of Enjolras, close enough to whisper in his ear, talking to him just as effortlessly as if the drinking and the mocking and the ranting had not been there. Easy, but at the same time the hardest task in Grantaire's life. All that was needed was an effort, not even necessarily for the revolution, just an effort for the good.

"Tell me more about all this," Enjolras asked quietly.

"Well, her mother's dead," Grantaire said, relishing the wonderful feeling of having something meaningful to say to him. "I didn't want to say that to the girl. She's just a kid, it'll break her heart."

"We'll have to tell her," Enjolras said, making Grantaire's heart skip a beat at the _we_. "Let Courfeyrac do it. He seems to have ingratiated himself with her already."

Indeed, looking over his shoulder, Grantaire caught a glimpse of Cosette sitting on Courfeyrac's lap, macaron in hand, almost disappearing in the coat-and-scarf bundle, with a tentative smile on her pale and grimy face.

"So the mother is dead," Enjolras continued, "and you have taken her into your care? Where from, exactly?"

"I just picked her up from the street," Grantaire hurried to say, wishing this conversation would run on forever. "She was living with some innkeepers in Montfermeil, apparently."

Enjolras's warm expression froze. "You took her without asking their permission?"

It was always that way, always. Some stupid mistake, one wrong word and everything was lost and they were back to where they started.

"It isn't as if they were good people," Grantaire mumbled. "How must they have treated her if she was crying and begging me to take her away?"

Enjolras sighed. "We'll have gendarmes here in the Musain unless you've been very careful. Have you?"

"Well… not more than usual."

Enjolras frowned, considering something, possibly his sentence. "We'll have to hold a meeting of the Amis," he finally said. "The girl will be with Louison meanwhile, I trust her. Naturally she'd be safer with you but I want you to attend. We must consider what to do with you both. I suspect the best course is to hide you somewhere for a while. We'll see what the others think."

Grantaire hung his head. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I messed up."

Suddenly Enjolras's hand was clasping his shoulder. "Don't apologise," he said. "You've done very well, a selfless and noble deed. I am proud of you. I know you won't want to be separated from us but you must understand that it is for the good of all. I can't risk having us arrested."

And with those words, Grantaire felt empowered. He was no longer a useless drunkard - he mattered, he was an Ami and Enjolras was proud of him.

"Don't worry about me," he said gently. "We'll be fine, me and Cosette. Just tell me where to take her. I'll do anything to keep you all safe."


	5. Chapter 5

"Monsieur," Cosette whispered, tugging at his sleeve.

"Just call me Grantaire," he replied wearily, stretching out on the bed. "Uncle Grantaire, if you must have a title. Only what would Enjolras say to you about this titular obsession, I fear to imagine."

"Where are we, Uncle Grantaire?"

"Didn't you listen? We're in Meaux."

Grantaire sighed and turned away to face the wall. The child could surely entertain herself for a little while. The room was too small for any jumping around, thank God, but there were books on the table and something was meowing downstairs.

"Uncle?"

"What do you want?"

"Where is Meaux?"

"On the other side of the planet," Grantaire said. "Any moment now we'll be attacked by bedouins and eaten by polar bears." The way her eyes became rounder than a sou made him smile. "Oh, it's just a few dozen kilometres north of Paris."

"What are we doing here, Uncle?" Cosette asked, sounding a little disappointed that there were no bedouins and polar bears.

"Hiding."

"From what, Uncle?"

"From the bogieman," Grantaire snapped, rubbing his temples. He felt a terrible headache coming on.

"Is it Madame?" Cosette whispered, her voice trembling. "Is she chasing after us?"

Grantaire was just about to tell her to leave him alone when something stopped him. He sat up and turned to look at her, pale, shivering, smaller than ever wrapped up in the few spare things Louison found before they had to be whisked away.

"Well, don't be so scared," Grantaire mumbled, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. "We've taken precautions, it's unlikely that they'll trace us to here."

It was Paris that was dangerous. At any moment the Musain could be invaded with gendarmes. He imagined Enjolras's slender wrists in handcuffs and the sight seared his eyes as if they were red hot. It would all be his fault.

"So don't worry," he said, forcing himself to banish such thoughts out of his head. The girl at least had no need for all this. "We're safe here. Madame Gourdain will make us comfortable. She's Bossuet's old nurse, they forgot to tell you that."

Cosette smiled a little. "Uncle Bossuet is very kind."

Grantaire too managed a smile, despite the dark cloud pressing on his chest. "He is, isn't he? They're all great. Aren't they?"

"They're wonderful," Cosette said. "I've never met someone wonderful before but today it's been raining wonderful."

"And Enjolras?"

Perhaps he was a fool but if he didn't at least talk about him the dark cloud would crush him completely.

"The blond one, you know," Grantaire continued, off-hand, as if he couldn't spend hours eulogising that hair. "What do you think of him?"

Cosette made a visible effort. "He is very strict," she said. "But I think he's very kind. As kind as Uncle Courfeyrac, he just doesn't show it so much."

"And what else?" He wanted her to sing his praises to the moon and back.

"He doesn't look as if he's really from here," Cosette said after a moment's deliberation. "From Earth, I mean. He's not like other people. He just feels different. And he looks like one of the Lord's angels come down to earth."

"Precisely," Grantaire nodded, satisfied. The dull tension in his chest was easing a little.

"And he's got a very nice smile," Cosette said, encouraged. "But his eyes are sad."

"Sad?"

"Yes," Cosette mumbled, throwing him an anxious look. "Very sad. But they're a bit less so when he looks at the other uncles. They were almost happy when Uncle Courfeyrac hugged him."

It was all that Grantaire ever wanted. Someone not from Earth, not like other people. People were so dull, so disappointing. There was nothing on Earth that pleased him, nothing worth dwelling on. Everything was broken, faded, cheap, boring, _disappointing_. It always came down to disappointment. The more he saw of the world, the more he was disillusioned with it. He loved and admired his friends, yet even they were still only human. There was only one thing that did not let him down and that was this angel with sad eyes who simply wasn't like the others. It was never a question of better or worse, just of difference.

Grantaire, too, had noticed the sadness. Only subconsciously, since he did not want to admit at first that Enjolras had human flaws. Sometimes sadness seemed a great flaw to him, a dent in the armour of the perfect human. Other times, when he had a little more hope in humanity, it became a blessing. It showed the presence of a heart. Then, in the end, it mattered very little. Enjolras was not like other people. Even his flaws were luminous in their perfection.

A sound of wheels below interrupted his thoughts. It sounded like a carriage alighting.

"Go see who it is."

Cosette ran to the window, then let out a joyful little cry. "It's them, Uncle!"

Grantaire heart leapt up. "Them? All of them?"

"Only three," Cosette called out. "Hard to tell from above. Uncle Enjolras is definitely there."

She must have told by the hair, Grantaire thought, his stomach constricting strangely. That hair could not be obscured even by the largest of top hats.

And indeed, in a minute there were rapid steps mounting the staircase, the door flew open and Courfeyrac charged in, followed by Combeferre at a slower pace, at last Enjolras, serene like always, brushing snow off the brim of that top hat.

"We bring good news," he said with a little smile at Cosette. "Feuilly went to investigate the situation around Montfermeil and it seems as if you left no clear trail to Paris."

"So Madame isn't following us anymore?" Cosette asked timidly.

"I wouldn't worry," Enjolras said with an air of finality.

"Good news isn't all we bring," Courfeyrac beamed. "Combeferre, would you?"

Combeferre stepped just outside the door and returned with several parcels in hand.

"Now, darling," Courfeyrac said, scooping Cosette up, "when is your birthday?"

"Oh, uncle," she said, "I'm not sure I have one. Eponine and Azelma did but I don't."

"In which case," Combeferre said, sitting down on the bed, "we shall consider your birthday being on the 6th of January."

"That means today," Courfeyrac grinned, "and that means that we have presents for you!"

Grantaire went over to the window. Courfeyrac could manage the girl very well without him. He saw something move out of the corner of his eyes and looking round he was surprised to see Enjolras having silently come up to him.

"To be perfectly honest," Enjolras said quietly, leaning on the wooden windowsill, "there is still some danger. We shan't be visited by gendarmes, I don't think, yet these innkeepers can't be expected to give up so easily."

"Do you think they'll make a fuss?" Grantaire asked, lapping up the sudden intimacy between them.

"Of course they will," Enjolras said with a small chuckle. "You've spirited away their ward, do you expect them to have no problems with that?"

"I didn't mean to make this hard for you," Grantaire sighed.

Suddenly Enjolras's hand was touching his. "You did wonderfully," he said, with a reassuring clasp of the hand. "I'll repeat it if needed - I am proud of you. As for the problems, they are hardly encumbering. The girl can stay here, it's as good a place for her as any."


	6. Chapter 6

For the next four and a half years everything was fine. Cosette lived with Madame Gourdain in the little town of Meaux, whose inhabitants were told that she was her orphaned cousin of some sort.

Les Amis de l'ABC paid their ward an official weekly visit that somehow ended up occurring almost every day of the week. On certain evenings Combeferre would take the girl through a tailored study programme that started with basic literacy and evolved into an in-depth examination of history, geography, languages, a bit of science and mathematics. A couple of times a week Courfeyrac would come bounding in with new fashionable dresses, sweets, ribbons, dolls and everything else that delighted little girls who did not know what prosperity meant. Sometimes Joly and Bossuet came, always together, Joly performing a medical check up and then joining Bossuet in building a pillow fort. Prouvaire and Bahorel appeared quite often, Prouvaire teaching Cosette to play the flute and appreciate skulls, Bahorel talking about various plays he'd seen and showing her how to hold a sabre properly. Feuilly came only occasionally but when he did, he treated her with a tenderness and respect that made Grantaire see him in another light.

Enjolras was a rare visitor yet when he came, he filled the room with a special mixed atmosphere of gravity and warmth. Most often he talked to Cosette about politics. Everyone had laughed when he had first declared this intention, yet Enjolras surprised them all by adopting a low-key, quietly humorous tone that suited a child to perfection. Only Grantaire wasn't amazed. Enjolras was capable of everything.

As for Grantaire himself, he was there more often than he thought he would be. Any time the others went, he would go too. It was becoming just like a family, such a family as he has never had. It uplifted him more than he could say, to see all his friends laugh and joke and love one another, to see Enjolras soar and smile at the same time, to know that he was welcome, that he belonged. He contributed little to that happiness himself. He was just there, joking, patting Joly on the back when he thought he was dying of cholera, admiring Enjolras and telling Cosette a bit about the Greeks.

He drank less than he used to, it seemed, and he didn't really know why. It just so happened. Sometimes when the shadows became darker he avoided the house in Meaux, sometimes he sought it out. Without noticing it himself Grantaire had become rather fond of this Cosette. She became a cheerful little thing, still smaller than her age but infinitely more confident, capable of putting a genuine smile on his face when earlier it would have been twisted into a drunken grin.

Then, he could talk to her about Enjolras. She too admired and loved him and how could she not? And so, they talked about him in a way that Grantaire never quite could with Joly and Bossuet. He could tell her what he admired in him, when he was coherent enough about it; he could complain to her about his flaws, knowing she will defend them.

With Enjolras, things had never been quite the same again. Grantaire had disappointed him a hundred times since, drinking, scoffing at the Republic, not volunteering for anything useful. Yet despite all that there was still a connection between them that hadn't been there before, always made apparent at the house in Meaux; sometimes a smile, sometimes an appreciative look, sometimes a quick word aside about an issue concerning Cosette.

Then came July 1830.

In early July due to the warm weather they were sitting outside in the little garden behind the house. Cosette, looking very grown up in a white muslin gown, was flitting around from one flower bed to another, chatting happily with Combeferre.

"Look, Uncle, there's that butterfly we studied last week! Isn't it beautiful with its pretty white wings?"

"Indeed," Combeferre said, looking up from a book. "What is the Latin name for it?"

Cosette pouted. "Let me see… _Aporia_… _Aporia_ something."

"_Aporia crataegi_."

"Yes!" Cosette laughed, looking up to follow the butterfly's flight. "Didn't you say _aporia_ means _puzzled_ in Greek? I think that suits her. She seems so shy and confused. Like a pretty young girl in a white dress that doesn't quite know what to do in the world."

"How poetic," Prouvaire sighed. "Shall I write it, or will you, my dear?"

"You, Uncle. My poetry's atrocious."

"I think it's good," Grantaire said. "At least it has soul."

Someone tapped lightly on his shoulder; Grantaire looked up and saw Enjolras beckoning to another part of the garden.

"I have something serious to say," Enjolras began when they were out of earshot. "It concerns yourself and Cosette."

Grantaire just nodded, trying to suppress the wave of anxiety. Instead he started examining the way that sunlight filtered through the canopy of the apple tree nearby, creating an interesting rippled effect on Enjolras's hair.

"You must know what's coming," Enjolras said softly. "You attend all our meetings."

"Where you talk of nothing else," Grantaire completed him. "A glorious rebellion against the Bourbon pigs. Well, what about it?"

"You must also know what we plan to do."

"You plan to fight," Grantaire said with an inward tremor. "To fight for the glorious Patria."

Enjolras gave a slight frown that could have been a dagger as far as Grantaire was concerned.

"Don't be angry," he pleaded gently, "you know I don't mean it."

"Men should say what they mean," Enjolras retorted. "But that is aside the topic. We shall fight but what shall you do?"

"I… well," Grantaire shrugged his shoulders, "I suppose I'll - "

"Precisely."

"I meant to say - "

"It matters little," Enjolras said. "You ought not fight for what you do not believe in."

"But I want to be with you!"

"Grantaire," Enjolras declared. "Life is a precious thing that cannot be thrown away."

"Then why do you do it?"

Enjolras's eyes gleamed dangerously. "I will not have you telling me that we are throwing our lives away."

"No, no," Grantaire hurried to pacify him, "I meant… Why can you die and I cannot?"

Enjolras sighed. "Grantaire, do you really think I am so eager to die? Do you think that myself and the others could not find a better occupation than lying buried under the ground, of use only as symbols?"

"No," Grantaire whispered, bowing his head. He could think of about a thousand things he would rather see Enjolras doing.

"In any case, it is far from certain that any one of us will die," Enjolras said. "Nevertheless, it is becoming increasingly clear that the people will rise. When they rise, we must be there with them. Since we must fight, we must acknowledge that there is a possibility that we may die, and this is why you should not join us there."

"Why not?" Grantaire demanded.

"It isn't easy, to die," Enjolras said, leaning against the trunk of the apple tree. His slightly bowed head and ruffled hair reminded Grantaire of a pensive angel at a graveyard. "It is not to be done lightly. How can I ask you to risk death for a cause you do not believe in? What would that make me?"

It was true that Grantaire did not believe in all those big words, Revolution, Republic, Rights of Man. Yet he believed in the one that spoke him. He believed in Enjolras, he believed in friendship and he knew that death was better than life without those two things.

"In any case, if our situation was different, I would not be saying all this," Enjolras continued. "I would not forbid you from joining us, neither am I doing so now."

"What then?"

"I am asking you to do something for all of us."

"You know I'd do anything," Grantaire exclaimed. "Just say it."

Enjolras inclined his head. "I want you to stay away from the fighting so that you will be there for Cosette in case anything happens to us."

Grantaire looked up sharply. To his shame, he had forgotten about Cosette, distracted by the horrific images of Enjolras lying pale and bloodstained on the ground.

"You shouldn't go off to fight and risk leaving her orphaned again," he said.

"That is why I am asking you to stay," Enjolras said. "She is now 15 years old, she understands more than you might think. I shall talk to her myself and make her understand why we must fight."

"It will still be painful, even if she understands."

Enjolras stepped closer. "Grantaire," he said, putting a hand on his shoulder, "I realise that what I ask of you is a sacrifice. I know that you would want to be with us. Yet I must ask you to do this, for her sake and for mine."

Grantaire was silent for a moment. The inevitable answer could wait for a second more while he savoured the weight of that arm on his shoulder.

"I will," he said at last. "For once you may rely on me."


	7. Chapter 7

Those few days in July were torture.

Monday morning, when the King's ordinances had been published, Grantaire was on a coach approaching Meaux. He cursed the King, cursed his pig-headed stupidity and his stubborn, restrictive ordinances that meant Enjolras and the Amis would fight. He cursed the people, whose mood was right according to Enjolras, whose righteous indignation as Combeferre had called it meant that those he loved most would now be risking their lives.

It wasn't that Grantaire thought they were stupid to fight, that they would inevitably fail. For all he knew, they had perfectly good chances of success. Enjolras said so and Enjolras could not be wrong. He just wished that they didn't have to do this, that the circumstances had been unfavourable and they could just go back to spending their evenings in the fragrant garden in Meaux.

On Wednesday morning there came news that fighting had begun the previous evening, with 21 dead. Later it appeared that various committees put in various pleas and demands to the King, none of which achieved the most important goal - to guarantee that his friends were safe. The next morning, Thursday 29th of July, if road builders congregating in the nearest tavern were to be believed, there were more than 4000 barricades in the whole of Paris.

So Grantaire waited, desperate and embarrassed. There was nothing for him to do in Meaux. His place was at his friends' side, making them smile or pouring drinks or bandaging their wounds, not here in a sleepy town taking care of two women. Why did he ever agree?

Because Enjolras had asked him to and whatever Enjolras said took on the shape of a hymn, grave and enticing.

"Oh, Uncle," Cosette said, twisting the hem of her dress, "do you think they're safe?"

"No."

"But, Uncle - "

"No one is safe on a barricade," Grantaire muttered.

Cosette's eyes glistened with tears. "I'm so afraid for them!"

"Well, don't be," Grantaire said gruffly. "Enjolras will manage. You just need to believe in him."

Cosette jumped up anxiously, did a turn around a room, then sat back down, lips tight together.

"I wish they'd let me help," she said suddenly. "Do they take me for a little girl?"

"You'd be terrified."

"I would be," Cosette declared. "But tell me, Uncle, does that mean I mustn't help? I am very angry at them." This was accompanied by an outraged kick of a nearby chair. "I know all about the barricades. Uncle Enjolras explained everything. Isn't it good to help the people?"

Grantaire grunted in reply, too occupied with trying to keep bloody images at bay.

"Then why can't we help? I bet you'd much rather be there, wouldn't you, Uncle? You'd fight with them and I would make bandages, like Uncle Joly taught me. I'm ever so good and - "

There was a knock on the door. It was now nearly dark and although Cosette leapt up to look out of the window, she announced she could see nothing.

The door hinges creaked, Madame Gourdain's anxious whisper rustled underneath, then rapid steps ascended the staircase and paused before their own closed door.

"Come in," Grantaire called out, not bothering to get up from his armchair. He didn't want to hear the news. More likely than not some dusty warrior will come and tell him that they were dead, all of them, even Enjolras, dead and gone forever while he had been sitting here idle, unable to save them…

The door opened, revealing a young student with extravagant curly dark hair and thick red lips, wearing a shabby and somewhat blood spattered grey-black coat. That coat made Grantaire remember. _Monsieur l'abbé_, Courfeyrac sometimes called him, otherwise known as Monsieur le Baron Marius Pontmercy. He had been rather distant in recent months and excited Grantaire's jealousy because Enjolras still blithely declared that he was a decent person and will come around. It seemed as if Enjolras had been right, as always; the young man was clearly coming back from a barricade.

Currently, instead of saying something sensible and alleviating Grantaire's fears, the young dolt was staring at Cosette, rooted to the spot. Cosette, equally immobile, was looking up at him with round and enchanted eyes.

"Right," Grantaire called out, so loudly that they both jumped a little and looked back at him. "What news, Pontmercy?"

"Ah… Enjolras sent me here. The _Hôtel de Ville _has been captured in the afternoon. Some politicians are establishing a provisional government. The King is overthrown."

Grantaire sank back into the armchair in relief. It was over and Enjolras was alive. Not that he had anything in particular against the former Charles X, they were all as good as each other, yet nothing has ever yet made him quite so happy than the news of his downfall.

"Here's a note," Pontmercy said, offering a battered piece of paper that Grantaire grasped so fast he nearly tore it in half.

The note was dirty, smelt of gunpowder, was stained with mud and something light brown that looked suspiciously like blood, yet the writing was still Enjolras's slender, immaculate script, as fresh and steady as if it had been written on his desk and not in the aftermath of a battle.

_Grantaire - _it said,

_The fighting is over and the people victorious. The tyrant has not yet abdicated; that will follow shortly. If you would come to Paris, do so tomorrow and bring Cosette. It should be a great spectacle. _

_All is well and we are safe._

_I thank you deeply._

_Enjolras. _

"Well, Uncle?" Cosette exclaimed, leaning over his shoulder to read the note that Grantaire promptly hid in his sleeve. It was for his eyes only. "Are they all safe?"

"Every one," Grantaire said, grinning with relief.

"Is _mademoiselle _your niece?" Marius inquired quietly, blushing.

"She's everyone's niece," Grantaire said, distracted. "Cosette, this is Pontmercy. Now pack a bag, we're leaving at dawn."

And without pausing to think that leaving two young people that blushed at the sight of one another may not have been the brightest idea he has ever had, Grantaire went off in search of a coach driver that will brave revolutionary Paris. When he paused to think of it, hours later, it was only for the best. Why shouldn't love be given free rein?


	8. Chapter 8

In the next two years, Pontmercy ended up visiting the house in Meaux more often than Grantaire liked. Cosette had grown up into a beautiful rose of a girl, all curls and lips and plump cheeks, yet was that a reason to ogle her like that? To be sure, she made a dazzling picture in this brocade or that velvet, which Courfeyrac still delighted in buying her, she had learnt to twirl her parasol in the coyest of manners and look sweetly above her fan, yet still Pontmercy could learn some limits. Moreover, fond as Grantaire was of Cosette, he could not understand how anyone could praise her beauty when Enjolras was in the room.

Courfeyrac smirked and winked when he saw Pontmercy and Cosette walking in the garden together. Combeferre frowned and said she was too young. Prouvaire cooed and composed romantic waltzes that he then performed on his flute. Enjolras seemed utterly oblivious to everything.

In the end, it came as no surprise to anyone when March 1832 Pontmercy pulled Courfeyrac aside one day and begged for Cosette's hand in marriage.

"The poor man had spent an age figuring out which one of us to address," Courfeyrac was laughing about it later, when Pontmercy had left, Cosette had gone to bed and they congregated in the drawing room to discuss the proposal.

"And he chose you?" Joly laughed.

"I'm his closest friend," Courfeyrac shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps his only friend, apart from you all. Then I suppose he was too nervous to come to Combeferre or Enjolras."

Bossuet grinned. "Combeferre would have looked at him like Robespierre at the Girondins," he said, "and started singing a biting little song about how Bonapartists don't marry respectable Republican girls."

"And Enjolras would have blinked at him innocently and asked what on earth is marriage, how does it relate to barricade building and is he sure that he wants Cosette's hand because that will severely maim her," Bahorel struck in.

"I assure you I would have been nothing but civil," Combeferre said, adjusting his glasses in a familiar disapproving fashion.

Enjolras was hiding a smile. "Whatever I would have said, do you not think we ought to hear Grantaire's opinion before anything else?"

Grantaire looked up with a jolt. He had been lost in thought, admiring Enjolras's obliviousness towards women. It spared them both a lot of pain - to Enjolras the pain of being disappointed in love, to Grantaire the pain of seeing both Enjolras's disappointment and his idol in someone else's embrace.

"Yes, that's right," Courfeyrac said. "Cosette's favourite uncle, what do you think?"

"Well," Grantaire shrugged his shoulders, "he's a bit of a dolt. Cosette can do better."

"Oh, he's an magnificent fellow," Courfeyrac exclaimed. "Head lost in the clouds, perhaps, but since when is that such a fault? Too serious, I grant, and thinks the world of himself, yet that is an excellent quality in a young husband that needs to make his way in the world. Then the two lovebirds can scarcely live without one another. What am I, a man or a monster? In short, I am for it."

"He joined us at the barricades," Enjolras said, "thus despite his faults he is a good man."

"Political affiliation is not the best or only judge of character, Enjolras," Combeferre said gently. "A man may be a cad but still a Republican."

"Views may be hollow," Enjolras retorted, "but a desire to fight is not. I cannot believe the worst of any man that fights for his views.

"Yet there are such," Combeferre continued quietly. "Those that murder and loot while still fighting for a cause."

"Then these are enemies of the people," Enjolras said, his voice suddenly cold enough to send shivers down Grantaire's spine. "They commit a crime against the Republic by harming its people and dishonouring its warriors. They are worse enemies still than those on the other side and should be judged, then punished, as such."

He did that often, Grantaire had noticed. There was none of Combeferre's diplomacy in Enjolras. Enemies were enemies and no excuses could justify them. The world was black and white with Enjolras, yet eternally optimistic in a way that Grantaire could not quite understand but admired nonetheless. A hopeless cause would still come to fruition in time, Enjolras believed. A worthless, useless man could recant and return to the light. The amount of belief Enjolras possessed was quite incredible. Anything could yet prove itself, so long as there was some good in it. Yet, unlike Combeferre, strict on the surface, soft at heart, Enjolras had limits. There were crimes that he could not forgive, could not bring himself to forgive, for the sake of those people and that Republic he represented.

Courfeyrac patted Enjolras on the thigh. "Let us not get sidetracked," he said. "I assure you that Marius is not an enemy of the people. I will vouch for him."

"I know," Enjolras said, his voice warmer now. "I had always thought so."

"There's another question we mustn't forget," Feuilly said. "What will they live on? He's passed his law exams, sure, but he has nothing like a practice."

"Ah, he is young," Courfeyrac laughed. "Law practice at 22 years old? Didn't he inherit something from his grandfather?"

"They still need money," Feuilly insisted. "Dreamer or not, clouds do not feed a family."

"I am sure he will sort himself out for her sake," Enjolras said. "Then, brides require a dowry, do they not?"

"We'll put something together," Courfeyrac nodded. "Yet it can't be too much, of course. We are all on rather limited means."

"Except for myself," Enjolras said calmly. "Two years ago, I put what I learnt at law school to practical use. The mother's death has complicated the matter but in short, I acknowledged Cosette as my illegitimate child. An affidavit was all that was required, together with a statement from Madame Gourdain that I have been bringing up this child for the last six years. Cosette is now officially Claudette Enjolras and will inherit my property upon my death, there being no other claimants. In the event of her marriage, she will receive a donation of half that amount, thus equalling to date 200,000 francs."

Everyone gaped in silence. Only Combeferre did not seem surprised.

"Why Claudette?" Courfeyrac asked at last.

Enjolras smiled. "It's the closest name to Cosette I could think of. It would be unwise to have her proper name in the records. Those inn people may still be on their guard."

Bossuet suddenly burst into laughter. "You're a sly one, Enjolras!" he exclaimed. "10,000 francs a year, not bad at all for Mademoiselle Enjolras and Monsieur le Baron!"

"Double that, if worst comes to worst," Enjolras said quietly.

Courfeyrac's grin suddenly disappeared. "If things go wrong at the barricades, you mean to say."

"The people's anger is mounting," Enjolras said. "They shall not tolerate Orléans for much longer. The fighters of 1830 are ready to stand up, to retrieve their stolen revolution. It won't be long now. With the correct mood and circumstances, I see no reason why our joint endeavour should not be as successful as that of two years ago. More than that, perhaps, since the people's eyes have been opened to treachery."

"And yet, since all is possible," Prouvaire said, "dear Cosette's future must be secured. She should marry Marius as soon as the churches will allow. It is cruel to make lovers wait, plus all those odious money questions will be resolved."

"What about Marius," Joly struck in, "wouldn't he want to fight as well?"

"Not if we ask him not to," Combeferre replied, "for the sake of his wife."

There was a sudden jingling noise, as if something has been smashed. Automatically everyone turned towards Bossuet.

"Wasn't me," Bossuet exclaimed, raising his hands up in defence. "Something behind the door."

Closest to the door, he stood up and opened it. Though from where he sat Grantaire could not make out distinctly what had been broken, he could still make out Cosette standing frozen in the dimly lit hallway.

"Come in, young lady," Combeferre said sternly. "Were you not taught that eavesdropping is bad?"

"I'm sorry, Uncle," Cosette said, trembling. "I wasn't going to. It's just you were talking about Marius… Monsieur Pontmercy, I mean to say… and I just…"

"Leave off, Combeferre," Courfeyrac said, hoisting her up on his knees as if she was still a small child. "These are _affaires du coeur_ being decided here. As you may have heard, my dear, we seem to have reached a consensus that firstly, you are Enjolras's daughter, secondly, you shall marry that Marius of yours. If you want to, that is."

"Oh, I do," Cosette exclaimed, throwing her arms around Courfeyrac's neck. "I do, I do! I love him more than anything on earth, I adore him…" Here she trailed off, blush covering her cheeks like spreading dawn on the horizon.

"Then so it shall be," Enjolras concluded.

Cosette leapt up, more a butterfly than a girl with her fluttering skirts, and threw herself onto Enjolras, kissing him on both cheeks. Lucky Cosette! Grantaire thought a little gloomily, watching Enjolras make little effort to restrain her.

"But, Uncle," she said, settling down on his knees, "I want to ask you something."

"Yes?"

"When we are married," she said, her voice still a little tremorous, "won't we go and live in Paris?"

"Probably," Enjolras said.

"In which case, Uncle, wouldn't it make sense for me to help the poor?"

"Of course it would," Enjolras nodded. "Moreover, it would be your duty."

"Well, then, Uncle…" Cosette hesitated. "You were talking about barricades just now," she said in a rush.

Enjolras's expression darkened. "We were."

"I wish you didn't have to go," Cosette said, her eyes glistening a little. "They're such horrid places and so dangerous. But I understand why you must, it's to help the people. I understand that. It's terribly brave of you all to do it and noble, too. But couldn't I, then - "

"Absolutely not," Combeferre said. "These are no places for young girls."

Cosette's cheeks now flamed with quite a different sort of blush. "So I am to be left sitting with my dolls while you men talk politics?" she said, only half in jest. "How silly it is! Do you think I don't understand what you are about? Uncle Enjolras told me all I need to know. The people are good and suffering unjustly and must be helped. There. What more? You are terrible, all of you. You won't let a willing volunteer help you."

"There are very many ways to help the poor," Enjolras said quietly. "Fighting is just one. It is a method of darkness, you ought to take those of the light."

"But - "

"Come, my dear," Courfeyrac smiled. "When women stormed Versailles, they were playing a very different game. Things have changed. Barricades are an ugly business, when you look at it closely. Never let me see my darling girl in such a grim place."


	9. Chapter 9

The wedding was in May, a quiet affair with only the nine of them attending, plus Madame Gourdain and a few of Cosette's friends from Meaux. It was Grantaire who walked Cosette up the altar, feeling terribly foolish in white gloves and a new tailcoat, yet secretly pleased that Cosette asked for him especially. The bride was more beautiful than ever, lit up by youth and love that Grantaire couldn't help but envy. The groom could not take his eyes off the bride, for which Grantaire had decided to overlook his generally doltish appearance. True love had to be encouraged.

For three weeks they frequented the newlyweds at their house in the Rue Perrée. To Grantaire, it never seemed the same. Cosette was as fresh and charming as always but there was something new in the air, a beginning of another era. On the bright side, Grantaire considered his duties complete. He has fulfilled his promise to the Fantine woman, he took the child into his care, brought her to safety, watched her grow up. Now she was a married woman, a clever and talented one who has had a good enough education to make her acquaintanced both with the Graeco-Roman pantheon and the bones of the hand. There was some satisfaction in that. She was probably his only achievement in life.

Then, on the 1st of June, Cosette and Pontmercy went off to travel. Cosette had been dreaming of foreign countries ever since Combeferre bought her that globe and proceeded to tell her all about each of the little coloured forms on its surface, Prouvaire joining occasionally with tales of this or that country's macabre rituals and heartwarming traditions. This first trip was neither to the Sahara desert nor to the South Pole, only across the Alps to Italy, where Enjolras had an aunt, now deceased, married to a wealthy Italian many decades ago.

They all bid them farewell from the house at the Rue Perrée, then returned to the Musain where the relief on everyone's faces was evident. It was much better to have Cosette away from Paris in such troubling times. Once more Grantaire spent the evening in quiet anger, not wishing to aggravate Enjolras by speaking his mind. Once again Enjolras's future, his future, everyone's future hung on the thin cobweb of whether or not this General Lamarque would live or die. Two years previous it was the King with his ordinances, now a general, that was all it took to fire the pistol, to trigger the fighting, and before Grantaire could even ask why it all mattered there was blood covering the paving stones.

Well, it mattered little. If Enjolras said they needed to fight, that is how it was.

So, when everyone had slowly dispersed for the night and only Enjolras was still left poring over barricade plans and maps of Paris, when Grantaire gathered up the courage to come up to his table and speak to him, it was not to dissuade him from fighting. Quite the opposite.

To his surprise, Enjolras heard his approaching steps and looked up. The flickering candle threw nervous shadows on his face that made it hard to tell whether he was smiling or frowning.

"When do you think it will be?" Grantaire asked, sitting quietly down on a nearby chair. It was a good position. It made him feel as if he was sharing in his work.

"Not easy to tell," Enjolras said, understanding immediately what the _it _referred to. "The anger is mounting. The people's mood is right and our allies around Paris are prepared for anything. There have been such grievances over the last two years; Lamarque's death will be the final straw. When he dies, as die he must, there will be a public funeral. People will gather, angry and grieving people. Perfect conditions for a riot."

"Soon then," Grantaire summarised. "Can we last the week out, do you think?"

"The sooner the better," Enjolras said with a sudden smile at him. "Though we must not hurry the people."

"Let them revolt at their own pace."

Enjolras chuckled. "Precisely."

Part of Grantaire wanted to remain silent, so that this warmth would remain between them for the rest of the night, until the bleak morning light drove them apart again. He always did better at night, the two of them alone, when the desire to be witty disappeared and there was no longer enough money to buy more wine.

Yet he had to continue what he started.

"What about me?"

Enjolras looked sharply round. "What about you?"

"What am I to do?"

"What you want."

"What would you say?"

"Who am I to suggest?"

All this in the same even, nonchalant voice; such a contrast to his own increasingly desperate one.

"Isn't there anything you want me to do?" Grantaire pleaded. Was he so insignificant in Enjolras's mind that he didn't care what he decided?

"Well," Enjolras said quietly, "I was wondering if we could renew our agreement from two years ago."

"No."

"No?"

"Cosette doesn't need my protection," Grantaire said. "She is married, she has Pontmercy and all the money she needs. I won't do it again."

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. "What will you do then?"

"I don't know," Grantaire whispered.

"You wouldn't care about the fighting," Enjolras said. "You have nothing to do on the front lines. I said it before; men should fight for what they believe in. And then, can you even shoot straight? You'll endanger yourself and us."

"Well," Grantaire declared, "what if I changed my mind? What if I'm now a firm Republican ready to lay down his life for _la_ _Patrie_?"

"You?"

"Well, why not?"

Enjolras's eyes gleamed angrily. "Do not laugh about it, Grantaire. You may mock me, you may even mock the Republic, but do not mock what we may have to face."

"Courfeyrac does."

"Courfeyrac is different," Enjolras said with a vexed shake of the head. "Courfeyrac knows limits. Courfeyrac loves what he mocks and mocks it lovingly. You are not him. Can it be that you are even capable of dying for what you love?"

"I am," Grantaire said, with a gravity he didn't know he had. "I am. You will see. Let me stay and you will see that I am."

"What is there on the barricades that you love?" Enjolras challenged him. "All that it embodies is all that you despise. What is there for you to die for?"

"It doesn't matter," Grantaire murmured. "Just let me stay. Let me stay by your side until I die there."

"Why would you want to be by my side?" Enjolras demanded. "I am everything that you sneer at. Isn't that so?"

"Not at all," Grantaire said quietly. There was no longer a point in denial. "You are everything that I love. There is nothing in this life that will measure up to you, to being with you and the others."

Enjolras watched him silently. In the weak candlelight half his face was plunged into shadows.

"Let me stay with you," Grantaire continued. "I ask for nothing more. You, me, and the Amis. As it should be. Let me be an Ami. Let us all be together, come what may."

Enjolras closed his eyes for a moment, then all of a sudden his hand, surprisingly warm, was covering Grantaire's own.

"You know, Grantaire," he whispered, "I don't think this request was ever aimed at me. Didn't you know that all this time, it was yourself that you had to ask?"

On the ensuing days, they did not talk again. There was no miraculous transformation from a Beast to a handsome prince. Grantaire was simply there, as he had wanted to. Ever since he had brought Cosette to the Musain, the table in the corner was empty and Grantaire occupied another, closer to the heart of the group. It remained thus.

When on the 5th of June the barricades rose, Grantaire picked up a rifle and used it mostly to lean on. He did what he was better at doing: telling Joly that his tongue looked healthier than ever, laughing with Bossuet at the roars of the cannon despite the sinking feeling that he experienced at every shot, cursing with Courfeyrac at the sad demise of his new top hat. When he saw blue uniforms slipping clumsily on the roof tiles above, barely visible through the smoke, bayonets gleaming dangerously in the direction of Enjolras, Grantaire did not wait for the shot that would follow. He took aim and for the first time in his life, hit the target twice in a row.

Enjolras's eyes were sadder than ever when he threw him a grateful smile. Yet, when there was no more fighting left to do and a dozen rifles pointed at their chest, there was a light in them that had not shone quite so warmly when he had soared in the skies of Revolution.

The report sounded, the fingers tightened around his own, the pain followed instantaneously, and yet all of that could not obscure from Grantaire a simple truth - this was where he was meant to be.

A few more shots rang out in the distance. The barricade was taken.


	10. Chapter 10

Cosette blamed herself that her flowers only appeared on the grave in September. The news of a rebellion in Paris had been given no great significance in Milan where they reached her and Marius. A little later they found out that it had been suppressed and all in a flurry Cosette wrote a tearful letter that was never answered.

They left for France immediately but it was late August by the time they were once again riding through the streets of Paris. Through the window of the carriage Cosette could see bullet holes in some of the houses. They could have been ancient or they could have been new and quite frankly, Cosette had no desire to know which they were.

Then it took a while to find out where the bodies had been buried. Marius had not wanted to tell her the grim details but Cosette insisted. Well, it turned out that the morgue - Cosette had not known that such a horrid place existed - could not bear the burden of all the bodies in the overbearing summer heat and only allowed the most minimal time to handle them. The precise reasons for them having to look for a public grave Cosette did not quite catch in between desperate attempts to collect herself.

It did not matter. It only made sense. She had lost all nine just as she had met them on that far away day that seemed too strange and distant to be true. It made sense for all nine to stay together, even in death.

She came almost every day, bearing tributes of flowers and pretty pebbles and autumn leaves. Every day, she knelt down by the side of the grave and called their names.

"I am very angry with you," she challenged them in a broken whisper. "How could you do such a horrid thing? Go and get yourselves killed like that when there are enough leaves on the pavement to bathe in and they're selling chestnuts in the Luxembourg?"

Cosette took a deep breath and wiped away the tears that were streaming down her nose in the most undignified manner.

"Well, I understand it well enough," she continued, unable to quite stop speaking to them as she used to do. "I know why you had to go and fight. I knew it all along. But why you couldn't be more careful about it, that will puzzle me for the rest of my life. Oh, I don't suppose it's your fault, you poor things. Who wants to die when there is so much to live for?"

Another sob escaped from her chest and Cosette wished she hadn't told Marius that he ought to stay in the office and work.

"Well, I'll stop crying," she said to herself, trying to persuade herself to do so. "Uncle Courfeyrac would have said I'm ruining my eyes and so I am. What's the point of crying, Cosette? Do you think it will bring them back, you silly creature? You'd better do what they told you instead of going on in this stupid manner."

Cosette stood up, scattering the last of the flowers on the grave.

"I hope you're watching me from heaven," she whispered. "Because I'll make you proud, I promise. I'll try ever so hard for your sake. I'll help all the poor little girls like you helped me. I'll visit all the poor to try to make their lives a little easier and I'll tell them all about you. I won't let them forget you, whether they want it or not. Then Marius will be doing his cases _pro bono _and everything will be so wonderful."

She said goodbye, then turned around to go.

There was something rustling in the nearby bushes. Cosette looked up just in time to see a shadow hide behind the trunk of a thick oak.

"Who is there?" she called out, a little anxious. The day was gloomy and there was no one around as far as she could see. "Show yourself, please!"

There was silence. Cosette stood waiting for a few moments, then when she was sure that no one will come, a thin, ragged figure emerged from behind the tree.

Cosette looked closer and realised it was a girl, no older than herself but dressed in the most abominable rags that reminded her painfully of _that_ time long ago.

"Who are you?" she said cautiously, taking a step towards the girl. "Why are you here?"

The girl was scanning her from head to toe with a contemptuous, haughty look.

Quite unnerved, Cosette still decided to press on. "You must be hungry," she said. "Would you like to come with me? I could give you some food and a better set of clothes. Winter is coming and I know how terrible it is to be cold."

The girl scoffed. "I want no charity from you, Madame Cosette," she drew out in a hoarse, low voice, putting a special scornful stress on the _Madame_. "If I do come, it's not for you. I want to see M'sieur Marius. I'm a friend of his, you see."

"A friend of Marius?" Cosette exclaimed, now perfectly reassured. A friend of Marius was a friend of hers. "Then please, do come with me. I'm sure my husband will be delighted to see you!"

And she took the girl by the hand, leading her past the graves and towards the street where there was life and hope and a future, one that she will dedicate to that same struggle as those nine men that loved her.


End file.
